


Feel More Human

by avesnongrata



Series: Maria/Natasha Ficlet Collection [11]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Self Care, shower beer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 13:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avesnongrata/pseuds/avesnongrata
Summary: Natasha has her own little rituals to help herself handle the stress of her job.





	Feel More Human

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old one from tumblr that I finally remembered to put up here. Enjoy!

Of course Natasha is tired after work. Everyone is tired after work. Natasha is tired because she uses her body and her mind to their extremes in many, many different ways throughout the course of each mission: before them in the planning stages and the setup, after them during debriefing, to say nothing of the work itself. She helps plan missions, spends hours with tactics sometimes, reminding the folks who sit behind desks and analyze numbers with a computer that the logistic they propose need to actually be accomplishable by real actual humans – even if some of them defy the limits of most humans.

It is a nice thing to be allowed to do, being able to point to topography on a map and say, ‘that slope’s gonna be a bitch if there’s fresh snow over the ice. This access point over here adds a few extra minutes but it’ll be less of a pain in the long run.’ As opposed to being told to find a way to make it work, or her failure and the resultant injuries and death in the cold would be the least she’d deserve for her failure. They treat her like a person here, at least the ones who work with her often enough to not be quite so intimidated by her.

She hits the gym as well. The modular scenario replicator tech helps her practice the feats she’s supposed to pull off in the field in a controlled and safe manner. At least as safe as trying to climb a sheer vertical wall and then leap a 10 foot chasm into an open window can possibly be. The crash mats are almost fun sometimes. She appreciates them.

The fieldwork speaks for itself. She tries not to linger on the details once she’s dumped them wholesale to the debriefing team and then, later, to her therapist. It doesn’t do to dwell on the things she needs to do to get her job done. The med staff bind up any open wounds, give her meds when the bruising and contusions and swelling and stiffness are too much. Lately she takes comfort in comparing bruising with Clint, in bitching about declassified mission parameters with Maria. It takes its toll, of course, but she’s got the support network to handle it.

She has her own little rituals to help herself handle it too. Thanks to her therapist and – she has a hard time using the word sometimes, but it’s the right one – her friends, those rituals involve a lot less alcohol and sleep deprivation these days.

She makes it through the door of her apartment before the sun has sunk too low behind the buildings for once. The last few beams of light clip past the neighboring row of buildings, casting unfamiliar shadows on the walls. Maria looks up from her tablet from her position on the sofa. That part at least is getting familiar. She’s not always home when Natasha gets home. She doesn’t always come to Natasha’s apartment after work. They don’t call it _their_ apartment. Maria doesn’t call it home. But they both kind of want to. It would simplify things, at least logistically. It would make things a whole lot more complicated emotionally, but maybe it would be worth it. Natasha thinks about that a lot these days. What would it mean to actually move in together? Not just see each other’s living spaces as optional safe places to crash when needed, but to actually share a space that is safe precisely _because_ it is theirs?

Natasha is not used to feeling that kind of trust. Neither is Maria, for that matter. Neither of them are spectacular at being taken care of. They both firmly maintain that they don’t need anyone’s help. They can make do on their own in any and all situations. It’s lonely, it’s isolating, but it’s better than the alternative.

On the other hand, over the past few years, they’ve come to learn that they genuinely like doing things for other people. It isn’t selfless, usually. Maria is good at making herself indispensable so that she can count on being able to call people in line later. Natasha finds that going out of her way, saying yes to the extra mile, eases the ever-present knot in her conscience that may take more than a lifetime to undo.

They don’t need each other. They don’t. But it’s nice to have each other.

Especially in moments like these. Natasha kicks her shoes off next to Maria’s by the door and tosses her bag into the hall closet. After a moment’s reflection, she digs the sweaty workout gear out of the bottom of it and tucks it under her arm, tossing the bag back into the closet.

Maria looks up at her, affection shining in her eyes, even if it’s clear she’s still thinking about what she had been reading when Natasha came in. Natasha nods a small greeting, content to let her concentrate. She heads for the bedroom.

Maria grabs her hand as she passes. She moves steadily and deliberately, telegraphing her movement and intention. She does it subconsciously at this point. She’s learned how to behave around Natasha to set her at ease. Little things like walking with heavier footfalls and keeping a point of contact between them when Natasha is asleep. She’d never admit how much she appreciates it, but it’s those little things that make it just that much easier to trust this woman. It’s intimate, such a change from the facade Maria usually wears when she’s working. Maria can’t let little so-called weaknesses like kindness or empathy slow her down when she’s trying to wrangle SHIELD agents and superheroes at work. Natasha knows how hard she works to keep that cold, callous asshole vibe out of her personal interactions. She appreciates that. She understands how much is scares Maria to expose her soft underbelly. That’s metaphorical, of course: Maria Hill has rock-hard abs. There’s nothing soft about Maria’s actual belly. Natasha appreciates that, too.

Natasha gives her hand a squeeze and moves to keep heading for the bedroom. Maria’s grip tightens long enough to still her feet.

“You okay?”

Natasha nods, still quiet.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. I need a shower.” Natasha meets her halfway. She’d rather just keep silent, but she knows Maria worries extra when she doesn’t feel like talking. Even simple verbal responses help.

“Okay. Enjoy your shower.” Maria kisses her knuckles, then releases her.

“Thanks,” Natasha adds as an afterthought from the bedroom door.

She dumps the clothes from her bag into the hamper in the corner, then peels off the rest of the clothes she’s wearing and adds them too. She rubs at the lines her bra leaves against her ribs as she heads for the bathroom. Out of habit, she averts her eyes from her reflection in the mirror. She turns on the shower, turning the hot water up a little higher than she actually likes it in order to get the old building’s pipes up to speed a little faster. She could have showered at work. The water pressure is great and the temperature is always medically precise. Scientific. The walls are so cold, though. Drab. The knowledge that someone else is likely to need the stall as soon as she’s finished puts a damper on the appeal of a nice, hot shower after work, something she’s gotten used to.

It does so much to get her out of her own head for a little while, so that when she comes back to it she’s feeling more herself. It’s meditative, helps her focus on being okay in her own skin.

The steam is already fogging the mirror, which means she forgot to turn the fan on again. She flips the switch right before shifting the curtain aside just far enough to slip through it and into the tub. The water spraying against her skin is an instant relief. She lets the heat seep into her muscles for a minute before turning the hot water back enough to a more manageable level. There was a time she’d have been punished for letting even this much bathing water – much less _hot_ water – go to waste. It had taken her a while to stop feeling nauseated with guilt about it. She’s learning that she’s allowed to do what she needs to do to take care of herself. Indulging in a hot shower is a perfectly acceptable thing to do. She lets the spray pound down onto the back of her shoulders and stares down at her body.

Little by little the monochrome tones her skin has taken on begin to wash away. The forested wilderness in which she’d been operating managed to be both muddy and dusty at the same time. Even under her tactical gear, the grit coated most of her skin. She’ll scrub the rest of it away soon enough. For now she’s content to watch the worst of it slough off by itself.

The colors that arise in its absence fascinate her in a morbid sort of way. They’re reassuring, almost. None of the blows she’d taken had been enough to break skin. She’s glad for that, of course; having bandages to change is always a hassle. Still, there’s something about fresh wounds that’s validating. With an arm in a sling or a few stitches above her eyebrow, she can put on a brave face and act like the injuries don’t hurt. It’s a lot different than acting like there are no injuries at all.

Bruises and strained muscles and overextended joints are a whole other ballgame. She still tries to conceal any injury that isn’t immediately visible, and sometimes she acts it out so well that she forgets she’s sustained injuries at all. The pain doesn’t go away, though, no matter how convincing her performance. She’s glad to see the speckled red bruise on her kneecap, the red welt on her upper arm, the radiating bruise on her ribs. They remind her that yes, there is a physical, concrete, simple explanation for the hurt. When she is in pain, it’s nice to have a tangible reminder as to why.

It also helps to have something to work towards healing. She can gauge how long it will take her bruises to disappear by the colors they turn, how long it will take before the cuts and abrasions close completely.

She runs her thumb across the bruise on her knee, just hard enough to acknowledge that it is as real and as tender as it looks and feels. It’s comforting.

She reaches for the shampoo next. Yet another reason she’s glad she came home to shower: she doesn’t keep this fancy, hipster nonsense soap at work. It’s expensive, indulgent, frivolous, but it’s another example of a little pleasure she allows herself to help herself feel human. The scent is subtle, fresh, comforting. She spreads a generous amount across her hands, then works it into a lather against her scalp. The suds run down her neck, over her shoulders, her breasts. She scrubs with her nails, trying to get the mud out of the edges of her fingernails at the same time as getting all the gross out of her hair. It feels wonderful.

The sound of Maria cracking the bathroom door open cuts through the hiss of the shower. It’s unmistakable. Maria knows better than to sneak around, even inadvertently. She opens the bathroom door, closes it deliberately behind her. Natasha realizes how much she must have made her worry when she came home and headed straight for the shower. She feels a little bad about it, but Maria doesn’t push. The shower curtain ripples a little, followed by the clink of a glass bottle being set on the edge of the tub.

“Dinner’s on its way. Take your time; I’ll keep it warm for you.”

Curious, Natasha wipes the suds out of her eyes and opens them to find the bottle of beer Maria brought her.

It’s cold, cold enough that it’s already sweating in rivulets in the steamy bathroom. Natasha licks her lips. She can hardly imagine anything else tasting or feeling as good as a long sip from that cold bottle. She reaches past the curtain liner, but instead of grabbing the bottle she catches Maria by the wrist on her way out the door. She squeezes her hand in thanks, then pulls gently, almost subconsciously.

Maria doesn’t hesitate to follow the pull. She steps closer. Emboldened, Natasha tugs a little more insistently, and a moment later Maria steps into the shower with her, clothes and all. There’s something about the willingness behind it, the fact that Natasha asked something of her and she didn’t hesitate to give her what she wanted. Something rises in Natasha’s throat that makes it hard for her to breathe. She steps closer and folds herself up against Maria’s chest. Maria wraps her arms securely around her shoulders and holds her there. Pinned between the warmth of Maria’s body and the heat of the shower at her back, Natasha feels the last of her tension drain away. She rests her head heavily against Maria’s shoulder and just breathes. Maria says nothing, only holds her.

She’s not sure how much time passes. Probably not much, considering the fact that when she finally tries to move, the bottle is still cool when she picks it up. She has to shift their center of gravity, reaching and leaning to wrap her fingers securely enough around the neck that she’s sure the bottle won’t slip out of her hand from all the condensation. Maria shifts with her, allowing her to keep her cheek pressed to her shoulder, even as she raises the bottle to her lips for a long-anticipated taste.

It’s exactly as great as she’d hoped it would be. She allows herself another long sip and a small groan of satisfaction. Maria chuckles and squeezes her even tighter. Even though Natasha’s body is shielding her from most of the direct spray, her tank top and shorts are getting pretty thoroughly soaked. She doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Her hair is starting to get weighed down from the spray and the humidity in the room. It sticks to her forehead and clings to her temples, the back of her neck. Natasha threads her fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck with one hand, the other hand draped over Maria’s shoulders, careful not to touch the bare skin on the back of her shoulder with the cold bottle while she kisses her.

Maria chuckles at her reaction to the beer, but there’s nothing mocking or condescending about it. The scent of Natasha’s soap still lingers in the air. Natasha offers Maria a sip, which the takes, and Natasha kisses her again. The beer and the taste of Maria’s lips is a combination she didn’t realize could be so relaxing, so perfect. Her lower lip is still cool from touching the glass bottle, but it warms quickly against Natasha’s own.

Just for a moment, there is nothing else in the world outside of this little space, with the water and the steam and the cold bottle of beer shared between them and the weight of Maria’s arms around her. It’s decadent and frivolous and exactly the right amount of absurd to make her feel wonderfully, thoroughly human.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, brushing her lips below Maria’s ear.

“You seemed like you could use a treat.”

“You spoil me,” Natasha scolds lightly.

Maria shrugs. “You deserve it.”

Instead of protesting, Natasha just echoes herself. “Thank you.”


End file.
